Regretting Stacey
by Celica60
Summary: Five years after the fight that ended their friendship, Laine Cummings drives to Stoneybrook to make amends. COMPLETE.
1. Regrets

**REGRETTING STACEY**

Disclaimer: Ann M. is much too busy to object to this. 

Summary: Five years after their fight, Laine drives to Stoneybrook to make amends with Stacey. 

The idea for this story comes from a conversation I once had with someone - that regret is worthless if no effort is made to correct the mistake. 

Author's Notes: I keep saying I'm focusing on humor. Dude, I'm such a liar. It's sad. 

I'm _supposed_ to be working on my Amsterdam and Kristy stories. As soon as this is published I'll get right on those. I promise. Really. 

**CHAPTER ONE: REGRETS**

I had a pregnancy scare last spring. 

For four days I believed it, agonized over it, threw up from the stress of it. And cried and cried and cried. I cried remembering the girl I once was, full of silly notions and ideas - but happy, so very happy. I cried realizing the girl I'd become, snobbish and cynical and cruel. As a young girl, I imagined myself growing into someone popular and stylish and trend-setting, but such things do not matter when the bad far outweighs the good. I wanted to be spectacular, but achieved only mediocrity dressed up in expensive packaging. How frightening to look in the mirror and see yourself and recognize yourself and admit that you are not the person you should be and nowhere near the person you want to be. 

My mother slapped me. She screamed, "How could you do this to us?!" I held my palm against my cheek, red and warm where her skin and mine connected. I imagined what my father would say, what the neighbors would say, what the kids at school would say. I thought, _girls like me don't get pregnant._

_Correction,_ I thought, _girls like me don't get caught._

"You've caused your father and I nothing but grief these past four years," my mother said, oddly calm, then stormed off to telephone Dr. Zimmerman. Relief flickered momentarily that I didn't have to explain about Tobin, the twenty-eight year old musician I'd met at a party in SoHo. I liked his music. He liked my tight ass. He hadn't called in a month and a half. 

I wasn't pregnant. 

That didn't matter to my parents. They stripped my room. No more television. No more stereo. No more computer. No more private phone line (no more phone at all). No more contact with the outside world. No more independence. No more life. 

And no more semester in Portugal. I'd studied portuguese with a tutor for the last two years. All that work for nothing. My mother chuckled and said, "You won't see Lisbon before you're twenty-five," then tore the application and reference letters into slender strips and tossed them in the trash. In the fall, I didn't return to Alman-Vess Prep for senior year. Instead, I transferred to Miss Holloway's School for Girls, where we wore maroon skirts with tweed blazers. Make up wasn't allowed. 

Deep down I was relieved to have my hand forced, to finally be boxed in by limitations. I had to change through necessity. Of course, I fought back, screamed at my parents, smashed a vase, and cursed them for ruining my life. But I didn't fight long. In truth, I was tired - tired of being someone else, tired of being superficial and shallow, tired of being with boys who wanted to posses me, and especially tired of secretly loathing the girl I'd become. Cracks split the facade and I had neither the energy or desire to repair them. So much had been lost to that cruel, selfish Laine Cummings. I couldn't risk another second in her skin. 

The past year and a half has changed me. I've learned to balance popularity and style and trend-setting with true maturity - not the snobbish maturity of my high school years. I am much less superficial, much less self-involved. But as I've moved on, away from my former self, draining of the things I've come to detest, I find that I am filling with something that gnaws at me, tugging within my stomach, pulling at my memory. 

Regret. 

I regret so much from the last five years. I regret the wasted moments of my remaining childhood. I regret the cold, cruel words I spoke to lesser girls. I regret loving boys for all the wrong reasons, souring my relationship with my parents, forgetting my real friends, growing up too fast and - 

I fear I will forever regret Stacey McGill. 

Stacey has no way of knowing it, but I kept the last letter she sent. The one officially ending our friendship. I kept her half of our Best Friends necklace, too. When the letter arrived, I crumpled it, furious, and threw it in the wastebasket. In the morning, I dug it out, flattened it as smooth as possible, and slipped it beneath a binder in the middle drawer of my desk. Sometimes I forget it. Sometimes I remember and take it out. I don't know if I'll bring it to university in September. I hope I won't. 

Stacey and I haven't spoken since eighth grade. A few months after our fight, we ran into each other outside the Starstruck diner. I was genuinely excited to see her, thrilled at the prospect of putting our friendship back together. Even if we'd never be best friends again, we could still be friends, a face from the past, a shoulder to lean on. I was having a rough time - problems with my parents, problems with my boyfriends, problems with friends at school - and needed a stabilizing force like Stacey. 

Stacey felt differently. 

She didn't hug me as tight as I did her. She smiled, but I looked into her eyes and saw the truth. Panic. Complete, absolute panic. I rushed on, ignoring her eyes and awkward hesitations. I invited her to sit with my friends and I. I thought we could catch up, forgive each other, and mend what I had broken. Mr. McGill said, no, they had something to discuss. I knew he was lying. Stacey promised to call. She never did. But then, I didn't call her either. 


	2. Remorse

**CHAPTER TWO: REMORSE**

It's August. A terrible time of year in New York. I turned eighteen in January. I leave for university on September 9th. Washington, that's where I'm going. Not the state. 

I brush my hair fifty times, standing in front of the full-length mirror that hangs on the closet door. I stopped perming it three years ago. I use brown liner and mascara on my eyes. I'm not into dramatic make up anymore. I dress in plain khaki slacks and sandals and a heather-gray cashmere shell. It's the wrong weather for the matching sweater. I admire my reflection - a little vanity never hurt anyone. The look is understated, yet mature. I laugh at the memory of Stacey's and my eighth grade definitions of "mature" and "sophisticated". I like how I look when I laugh. 

In some ways, I'm still that thirteen year old girl, standing outside the Starstruck diner, waiting for her ex-best friend to want her again. I regret not turning around, calling out, "I'm sorry and I miss you." 

I am full of regret. 

"I think I'll take the car out of the city," I tell my mother. "For practice." 

My mother pushes her glasses down the slope of her nose and peers up at me. She's seated at the dining room table going over plans for a charity auction she's in charge of. For a moment, we just stare at each other, then finally, she sighs and walks into her bedroom. Our relationship has not repaired itself. She never apologized for slapping me. I doubt she ever will. I never apologized for almost getting pregnant. I doubt I ever will. 

My mother and I, another casualty of the old Laine Cummings. Another great regret. 

She retrieves the car keys from her purse, presses them into my palm along with three brand-new twenty dollar bills. I've not yet earned back credit card privileges. Not until I leave for university. My parents call it "straightening Laine out." I call it "cruel and unusual." 

I hurry out of the apartment and to the garage where we park my new car. It was a graduation gift. I asked for a fiery red BMW convertible. I got a silvery-green Mazda sedan. I know I should be grateful. Sometimes I am. 

I've only had my license for two weeks. I've already had four almost-accidents. I drive out of the city without incident, heading toward Connecticut. I don't know what I'll say. After so much time is "I'm sorry" enough? 

Since the morning at the Starstruck diner, I've seen Stacey several times. As far as I know, she's not seen me. 

The first time, she was jogging in Central Park with a redheaded boy. I think he'd gone to Parker Academy. Stacey ran right by me without a backward glance. That was the summer after eighth grade. 

I saw her again at Christmastime, standing under the tree in Rockefeller Center with her friend, Mary Anne Spier. Twice in the spring I spotted them riding the escalators at Saks. Once, they were going up. The other time, they were going down. 

The next time, we were eating at the same italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. Stacey was with Mr. McGill and his new wife (my father heard he remarried). I made Read Marcus switch seats with me, so I wouldn't have to watch them. 

The last time was the January before Tobin and the pregnancy scare. Troy, my then-boyfriend, and I were ice skating in Central Park. We passed Stacey and Mary Anne on the ice, wearing matching ivory parkas with fake fur-lined hoods and fuzzy pink earmuffs. I skated circles around them for fifteen minutes. They never noticed. I guess they're best friends now. I wonder whatever happened to Claudia. 

It's been awhile since I've seen Stacey. Sometimes, I'll walk down 70th Street or passed the Hard Rock Cafe and think I see her. Any tall, thin girl with shiny blonde hair can be Stacey. I never run after these girls or call out to them. Somewhere deep, I know they aren't Stacey. Even deeper, I know I wouldn't run after the real Stacey. There are too many regrets to spill out on the street, covering it with sticky guilt and heavy burdens. 

In April, while looking at wallets in Bloomingdale's, the urge struck me to check for Stacey at Mr. McGill's apartment. During the walk to 321 East 65th Street, I practiced what I'd tell Stacey - how sorry I am, how much I've changed, how I miss our friendship, how I've learned the subtle differences between "mature" and "snobbish". Would I admit the pregnancy scare as the catalyst? I'd decide later. I pressed the buzzer for apartment 2F before noticing it read _Flynn_ and not _McGill_. 

Mrs. Flynn told me the McGills moved out in October. Transferred. To Columbus, she thought. 

Another misstep. Another regret. 

I knew, I knew I'd have to rouse the courage to make amends in Stoneybrook. 


	3. Repine

**CHAPTER THREE: REPINE**

I expected Stoneybrook to be farther from New York. On a map, it appears so far away. I used to look at the map and see only distance between Stacey and myself. Really, she was much closer than I'd known. 

I reach the Stoneybrook exit in no more than an hour. Coming off the freeway, I almost hit a rabbit. I hate the country. 

Driving through downtown Stoneybrook I realize I'm lost. I have no idea how to actually get to Stacey's house. The one time I visited Stoneybrook I spent too much time with my nose turned up to notice the streets and landmarks. I pull over in front of a row of shops and crane my neck to see the street sign. Essex. It means nothing. I should have bought a better map. 

I leave the car and run inside Pierre's Dry Cleaners. A tall black girl stands behind the counter, filing long square-cut nails and looking extremely bored. 

"Can you help me?" I ask. "I'm lost. I need to find Elm Street." 

"Sure," she smiles, flipping over a blank dry cleaning ticket and sketching a quick map. "You're really close. I used to live near there, but we moved last year." She slides the map toward me, still smiling. I thank her and leave. 

Renwick's sits across the street. Stacey and I ate there during my visit. Actually, Stacey ate while I drank seltzer, pretending to listen to whatever it was she talked about. I kept calling her "Anastasia". I knew it drove her crazy. That's probably why I did it. I wanted to be in Stoneybrook. I wanted to be with Stacey. I wanted Stacey and I to be the same as always. And, yet - I didn't. 

Stacey was tolerant and polite, to a point. Then, she called me on my rudeness, called my bluff about wanting to return to New York. A part of me knew Stacey was right. Another part of me didn't realize it for quite awhile. I accept it now. Everything wrong with that visit was completely my fault. I changed too fast for Stacey. I changed in all the wrong ways. 

At the stoplight on Essex and Main Street, the light turns red. I hesitate about making a right turn. Turning against the red makes me nervous. I decide to wait for it to turn green again. 

Two girls walk their bikes across the crosswalk in front of my car. As they pass, the girl in the lead flashes me a friendly smile, revealing two rows of silver braces, framed by slick and shiny lips, the color of ripe raspberries. I grip the steering wheel and slouch down in the seat. I swear, the passing girl is Kristy Thomas. Not the tomboy, but a young woman in olive green shorts and a tight beige t-shirt, her shoulder-length hair pushed back with a coppery headband. Is this really Kristy Thomas? I remember her in baseball caps and bulky sweaters, blowing a whistle in people's ears. I certainly don't recall her being so...busty. If the years could alter me as they have, then I suppose they could give Kristy Thomas breasts and an affinity for shiny lip gloss. 

The girl behind her gives a small wave. She has wild curly hair. I'm sure I've never met her. Kristy and the girl climb onto their bikes and peddle off down Main Street. The car behind me blasts its horn. I finally make the right turn. For several feet, I drive alongside Kristy. I think of all the regrets I have tied up with Kristy and her friends. I almost roll down the window and shout them out to her. 

_I'm sorry, Kristy Thomas_, I'd yell, _for calling your club babyish, for insulting your school, for laughing at your Valentine Masquerade._

Instead, I press hard on the gas and zoom away. Maybe Stacey and her friends hadn't been immature. Maybe they were just as thirteen year olds should be. Maybe I was wrong. 

I know I was wrong. 

It's one thing to admit it to myself. A whole other thing to roll down the window and shout it out to Kristy Thomas and all of downtown Stoneybrook. 

I wish I could go back and have another year of baby-sitting. I wish I could go back and enjoy one more afternoon at The Last Wound-Up. I wish I could go back and accept a slow dance with Pete Black. I wish I could go back and be Stacey McGill's best friend again. 

I'd do everything right this time. 

I drive slowly down Elm Street, searching for number eighty-nine. I forgot to rehearse an apology. It doesn't matter. I was the debate champion at Miss Holloway's. I'll wing it. 

I remember Stacey and I exploring the streets of New York. 

Stacey and I eating frozen Milky Ways in my old apartment. 

Stacey and I shrieking on the telephone because she's moving back to New York. 

Stacey and I hugging and sobbing in my bedroom because she's moving back to Stoneybrook. 

Stacey and I screaming at each other in her mother's car after the Valentine's Day dance. 

And, the panic in Stacey's eyes after spotting me outside the Starstruck diner. 

I roll slowly passed number eighty-nine Elm Street. The shutters are painted dark teal. Were they always that color? A fat tabby cat stretches on the porch. Mrs. McGill's station wagon is parked in the driveway beside a dust-covered turquoise Chevy Impala. Both have the same bumper sticker - _Stoneybrook High School Swim Team_. 

I roll to the end of the block, then slam on the gas and turn the corner, in search of the nearest freeway on-ramp. 

There's no going back. 


End file.
